I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.

Here is where I take your smile and
stretch it into a sunset, I
remember your words to mean
everything they didn't
I make haikus out of eyes and note how
they emit light when you laugh
This is where I draw you indelible
on the pages of a notebook
I color you vivid, write you
permanent, take non-fiction and
turn it fantasy,
Into something we might watch
together on a Sunday night
I designate you hero of the story and
I wait with tired arms
to be lifted into yours
Here is where I create a landscape
out of ash and worship you with
language you don't deserve,
vocabulary that is too big for your small
Here is what could easily be a love poem if
you were someone who wanted one but
the only want you have isn't for me

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing
It must have the same effects as walking on the moon
It must trend faster than a meteor as it  hurdles through cyber space

I refused to love any man, who dislikes my poetry,
My man must support my passion ..
not only the warmth of my body
but the passion within this poetess, my secretive mind he must be able to balance:
Without wondering why a woman like me is so naturally secretive
I am always embracing the dark side of my creativity
Dropping little hints here and there throughout the years,

Sidney   J. Harris once said something that left pondering thoughts
He said “When he hears somebody sighs,
'Life is hard,' he’s always tempted to ask them, 'Compared to what?'
I would simply say dog-gone it: Compared to struggling poets whose tries to make a living as a writer

While an upcoming rapper like Chief Keef
signed a several-million dollar deal
with offending lyrics in today music industries:

I just want to write a poem no one ever thought of writing,
With lots of intense emotion bursting through each line:
Because a poem can’t exist without a poet's multiple voices
and most of all his divine missions

the heavy heart is a heathen
corrupter of better nature
committer of soul-treason

fueled by the miserable notion
that death is twilight
and life is dawn

to flight, to flail
to rage, to rail
to weep, to wail
to no avail

to unhope

and all of this minus the mercy

©Jason Cole

If you accidentally
             fall out of love,
Do you just dive
                back in head first?
           Feet first??
                     Eyes closed???
        Cannon ball????
             Or
Do you walk away
       Cause you can't swim
And you're scared to death
                   of *drowning?????

Don't approach a dog unknown to you
Holding out your hand, making eye contact
You may frighten him
Let him come to you

Don't write a poem uninspired
It won't work out
In good time
Let it come to you

Don't go out there seeking love
Like a child with a butterfly net
Live your life
Let it come to you

dancer of the clouds,
ink of dream,
as if the sky, hushed
and utterly forlorn,
turned a pirouette.